...the King's Hand, Lord Stark. They're carrying him up to Baelor's Sept.
I heard he was dead.
Soon enough, soon enough. Here, I got me a silver stag says they lop his head off.
Past time, the traitor. The man spat.
Arya struggled to find a voice. "He never..." she started, but she was only a child and they talked right over her.
Fool! They ain't neither going to lop him. Since when do they knick traitors on the steps of the Great Sept?
Well, they don't mean to anoint him no knight. I heard it was Stark killed old King Robert. Slit his throat in the woods, and when they found him, he stood there cool as you please and said it was some old boar did for His Grace.
Ah, that's not true, it was his own brother did him, that Renly, him with his gold antlers.
You shut your lying mouth, woman. You don't know what you're saying, his lordship's a fine true man.
By the time they reached the Street of the Sisters, they were packed in shoulder to shoulder. Arya let the human current carry her along, up to the top of Visenya's Hill. The white marble plaza was a solid mass of people, all yammering excitedly at each other and straining to get closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. The bells were very loud here.